


Church Rave in Miami

by iktwabrokenbone (apiculteur)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6125506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiculteur/pseuds/iktwabrokenbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a month before Ross stopped being able to excuse it. Smith didn’t touch him at all. Anything, even as small as Ross brushing a hand over Smith’s arm as he walked past, was rejected. The words exchanged became fewer and fewer, until there was nothing outside of filming, just simple, deflective answers. Ross could catch Trott openly staring at Smith, gnawing his lip or rubbing his face before he looked away.</p><p>(Smith is drifting, and Ross doesn't know what to do.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Church Rave in Miami

**Author's Note:**

> this is an idea [5samn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/5samn/pseuds/5samn) came up w, which i joined in on. therell b 4 stories in this collection, each based on a song from honne's ep 'over lover'. this one is based on 'church rave in miami', which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORQv6tvUKuU)!! this is the first thing ive written in around seventeen years so it may b slightly rusty, n its a bit of a different writing style to my usual thing.
> 
> check the tags for triggers before reading tbh!! not hugely graphic or w/e but sensitive material.

Ross could remember, not so long ago, when Smith had been the one who smiled most, who would kiss him all over his face when he woke up, would hold onto Trott’s hand whenever he could, would sit in the middle with an arm around one’s shoulders, and a hand on the other’s knee. It wasn’t so long ago. It shouldn’t feel so distant.

And yet, it did.

A few months ago, Smith had started to pull away. Ross hadn’t even noticed at first- he hated to admit to it, but he wasn’t the most observant person, and too often made up excuses like, “He’s just tired,” or, “It’s because you’ve been busy lately.” When it had been small things, like not eating with Ross and Trott, or waking up before them to go out alone, staying at the office later, Ross had been able to excuse it. He missed the morning kisses and the grins that made him squint too much, missed the closeness, but Smith acted normal when they were filming. There were enough (forced) smiles for Ross to dismiss it, and if he ever prodded, Smith would yawn, claiming it was the late nights and long hours. Trott didn’t question further, so neither did Ross.

It was a month before he stopped being able to excuse it. Smith didn’t touch him at all. Anything, even as small as Ross brushing a hand over Smith’s arm as he walked past, was rejected. The words exchanged became fewer and fewer, until there was nothing outside of filming, just simple, deflective answers. Ross could catch Trott openly staring at Smith, gnawing his lip or rubbing his face before he looked away.

Ross spoke to Trott about it before he spoke to Smith (or rather, Trott spoke to Ross about it first). He didn’t like to speak about either his boyfriends behind their backs, but anyone could see Smith was hurting. He didn’t know where Smith was, but he knew he wasn’t in the house, and they didn’t have to worry about him overhearing them.

If Smith had been in the house, Ross doubted they would have to worry about him hearing, anyway. He didn’t respond to much that they said anymore. It would take a few repetitions of his name before his head lifted, eyes always fixed on a wall behind them instead of connecting, and he would take too long to force out the minimal amount of words.

“There’s something wrong,” Trott said, and Ross hated that Trott looked no less tired than Smith. He could worry himself to death over either one of them, Ross knew. “He hasn’t said anything to you, has he? Because he’s said fuck all to me lately.”

Ross shook his head. “I don’t think he’s spoken to anyone.”

Trott paced, checking the time. “It’s eleven. He’s not back yet.”

Recently, Smith coming home late was becoming more normal. Ross would have been more surprised if he _was_ home, at this point. He was always back before either of them fell asleep, but he had stopped joining them in bed, relegating himself to the couch. If questioned, he would say he didn’t want to wake them, and leave before more could be asked.

“He’ll be back later,” Ross reassured, wishing he could be sure of himself. He wasn’t sure if he would be, not really. He couldn’t understand any of this. There was nothing triggering this change in Smith, not that he could tell.

It was midnight when Ross started to worry more. Trott had called Smith and gotten no answer, shooting Lewis a text to see if either of them were still in the office, as they had been when Ross and Trott had left.

_he left an hour ago. you guys okay?_

The text sent Trott into panic mode. Outwardly, he was pissed off at Smith, telling Ross how much of an asshole Smith was to stay out so late, to not give them any warning, to let them worry like this. Ross knew he was blaming himself and ripping himself apart with scenarios (cold and drunk or shot or stabbed or lost or gone).

Words from Ross’ mouth meant little to Trott right now. It was all he could do to stop his boyfriend leaving the house to search; Trott had been insisting that they should search for him for at least an hour before the door opened to Smith, keys held in his hand. He hadn’t even brought his phone with him. He wouldn’t know that they had called him eight times before Ross had heard the corresponding buzz from Smith’s jacket pocket (still hung up beside the door, he left that, too).

It took some doing to get Trott properly angry. Smith was always the one who could frustrate him most, but it was always because he was _trying_ to piss Trott off. Not now. Now, Ross could pick out the tendons in Trott’s jaw as he clenched down, and Ross didn’t bother to try calm him down. He was mad, too.

The scent of whiskey carried on his boyfriend’s breath as he sighed, closing the door behind him. The skin around his nostrils was crusted with blood, matching the mud-red streak that led to his cheek. When his mouth opened, his teeth were still stained crimson, the colour filling up the lines in his lips.

“Smith,” Trott said, and his voice cracked.

Smith wasn’t looking up. He tucked his ring of keys into his back pocket and tried to walk past. “You should have gone to sleep. I was going to stay on the couch.”

Trott scoffed. “What, you’ve been doing that for the past few weeks anyway, Smith.”

“I’ve been coming home late.”

In the space of a couple of seconds, Trott’s anger broke away, shoulders falling and face losing some of its tenseness. “We’ve been waiting up- look, _Alex_ , we love you. Please, talk to us? You’re bleeding.”

Ross wanted to talk, to apologise, to help, to do something. He was always the worst with words out of the three of them.

“Well, _Chris_ , I’ll make sure not to stain the couch,” he growled. “You and Ross should go to bed.”

“Smith,” Ross said. Their eyes both turned to face him, expecting more. Instead, he repeated what Trott had stated earlier; “You’re bleeding. Your mouth.”

The outline of Smith’s tongue could be seen behind his lips, licking away the sharp hints of blood before displaying his open maw. “Better, now?” he mocked.

Ross recognised this hardness about him, the excessive anger. Smith was not the type of man to cry, not the type of man to let himself get upset. If something hurt him, he didn’t lick his wounds, he let the adrenaline fuel his retaliative swings, wearing blinders to avoid looking at the collateral damage. There was, so often, collateral damage.

Once again, Ross pushed out, “ _Smith_ ,” and nothing else. It was all he needed to say. Trott covered the rest.

“I know you don’t always like talking about this kind of shit, but please, what happened?” he said, and the mask began to slip, the ribbons holding it in place coming undone with Trott’s voice lightly tugging at them.

“It’s- look, guys, it’s nothing. Just. It was-” Smith huffed, frustrated at his own inability to get out the words. Ross would prefer to sit down for this conversation (whatever it was, it would not be a simple problem, and his knees were prone to buckling under pressure) but if he suggested it, he was sure Smith would refuse, if only to be difficult. Small things like that sometimes seemed to make Smith feel stronger, and Ross knew how he hated to feel weak.

Neither Ross nor Trott said anything as their friend debated over how to phrase it. Heavy seconds rolled by before Smith ran a hand through his mess of hair. He had neglected himself lately, leaving him with a shaggy tangle of loose curls, and there was a clot in the fringe where a bit of blood had dried several strands together.

“You know- did I ever mention Melanie?”

Trott nodded as Ross shook his head. Anything before a few months into uni, Ross knew less of Smith’s life than Trott. They rarely spoke about things that far in the past, anyway.

“My ex. She was. Something. Kind of weird. Just- we dated a year or something, the end of high school and for a few months in uni. It’s stupid. She was really fucking gross, I couldn’t do anything with her. She didn’t like it when I was too close to friends, or if she thought I wasn’t paying enough attention to her, and she’d get really angry sometimes if she thought I was doing something without telling her. But she kept saying she needed me or she would- whatever. It’s fucking stupid, she was just a manipulative piece of shit,” he said.

Ross remembered some of it, now. He had never met her, but Smith used to keep getting pulled away from Skype calls because his girlfriend had texted him, and Trott used to always mutter something about how much he hated her. At the time, he had put it down to Smith being really into her, and Trott not liking that she pulled Smith away from them.

Smith paused there until Trott tensed and asked, “You didn’t talk to her, did you?”

Ross couldn’t help but think that Smith must have skipped a couple details in his rundown. If his two boyfriends were so upset by whatever this mess with her was, he must have.

His empty laugh hit the air in a way Ross didn’t like. “No, I couldn’t. She’s dead.” The breaths of all three could be heard, out of time, Smith’s heavier than the other two. “Saw that guy we went to school with- Jaren, remember? Said she killed herself a few months ago.” He spat out the ‘killed herself’ bit, trying to sound as if he didn’t care- just a creepy ex, right? Ross knew better.

It was rare that Trott looked vulnerable. He had dealt with something like this before, it showed. Ross wondered if Smith had called him, in a rush, to say he thought she was going to kill herself. “It’s not your fault,” Trott insisted, and Ross wondered if Trott had practiced this line as it kept on happening, practiced putting in all this genuine emotion to make Smith believe him.

“I didn’t say it was my fault.” Ross wondered if he had practiced pretending it didn’t hurt to see Smith avoid agreeing with him. “I just thought it’d be- I don’t know. A relief. That she’s finally gone, but she felt permanent. I used to think she’d always be there. I didn’t think she would really die. I don’t miss her, but it hurts? I haven’t really felt depressed since I was with her, and a while after we broke up. It’s fucking stupid.”

“You don’t have to push us away,” Trott told him, not angry or hurt that Smith had done it, but letting him know.

Smith sighed again, with that tired smile of his. It was beautiful in the same way that a burnt church was, windows smashed and wood charred, something that should be so holy, stripped down to bricks and bones. “I didn’t have to, but I didn’t fucking care. I hate not feeling anything, but I felt hollow. I didn’t give a shit that I was hurting you, because I just couldn’t _feel_ anything. I wanted to feel guilty.”

And now, here he stood, the aftermath of a volley of punches, knuckles bearing proof that he didn’t just take it. “We should clean you up,” Ross said.

Soft agreements were offered, and they made their way to the bathroom, where Trott dabbed at Smith’s knuckles as Ross cleaned his face.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” Smith whispered. “I felt like shit, I’m sorry I hurt you.” Ross had the feeling that Smith had went from being hollow for weeks to suddenly being hit with too much, too fast.

Ross cradled his fingers around Smith’s neck, making thick eye contact. “It’s okay.”

Smith nodded, glancing down to Trott, who gave a weighted smile. Everything about him looked exhausted, but this was still the look he gave Smith so often, the one that made him look completely in love. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

“Can I sleep with you guys again?” he asked, quiet, when Ross finally got the blood out of his hair.

“Of course, Smith.”

Ross tried his best to be subtle when he breathed in deep, smelling Smith as he held him close. They would wash away the whiskey in the morning, the cuts would heal, the bruises would fade, and they would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> this is fic no. 101 from me???? over 100 fics by me???? the vast majority of which r for another fandom??? truly amazing tbh


End file.
